I loved that there were shots of McCartney and Ringo singing along with the performers. It's nice to know they're fans of the Beatles too. And I must admit that I flushed with pleasure as McCartney began to play "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band"; nostalgia flowed freely. As he ended the number, Ringo skidded up alongside him and began to sing, "What would you do if I sang out of tune...". Something wet made its way down my cheek, washing away my sins.
It has been called to my attention, quite delightedly so, that the program will be repeated starting at 8:30pm this evening (Wednesday 12 February 2014). I've already set the DVR, but I will have to clear space on it. That is a recurring problem - it is almost always full. I've some hard decisions to make as to what to delete. Will it be the 4 or so hours of 'Twilight Zone' episodes I've yet to see from that New Year's Day marathon? Maybe it's time to get rid of "Incubus", an odd little early 60s black and white horror cheapy in which an impossibly young William Shatner fights the forces of evil? I haven't quite finished watching it, and well, it -is- the only movie I know of whose dialogue is spoken entirely in Esperanto. I suppose I could sacrifice "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane"... What am I saying? I must have lost my mind.
Losing one's mind just now isn't too odd a circumstance. It's all the rage. (Pun intended.) We are playing on a Mercury Retrograde game-board. And it's been cold, minus something or other (Fahrenheit) cold. Such weather used to be common around here, but these days the wailing and caterwauling when single digits appear is kind of unnerving. Wait till folks discover that we are supposed to, possibly, maybe, get a blizzard this evening. One of the delights of not having a car and relying on public transportation is that I now stock provisions for several days to a week at a time. It will be a pleasure to avoid the markets today. Except I just realized that I forgot to pick up breakfast supplies. I only started eating breakfast again recently, and I find that it suits me. I hadn't eaten it with any regularity since I was a teen. As I sit here typing, staring out the glass sliding doors to one of those clear blue skies, snow on the ground glowing with a decomposing nitrate film stock brightness, savaging a bowl of steel cut oatmeal (with maple sausage and maple syrup), I suddenly find myself in the house on Allen Street. It had been my grandfather's house, and at the time was owned by my Uncle Bob. He, Aunt Lorraine, my father, my brother, and I all lived there for most of the 1950's. I am in the dining room, sitting at table. This would be about 1956, so there would be "I Like Ike" buttons on the sideboard that sits in the bay window. I was about to push my spoon into a bowl of maple oatmeal, a new product called "Maypo". There had been ads on tv for it. I was entranced, snared by the wiles of Madison Avenue, and wanted to try it.
I asked many times if we could add it to our shopping list. Finally Aunt Lorraine relented, purchased a box, and prepared the heavenly sustenance. My hand trembling, I raised my spoon in anticipation of holy communion. And I hated it. I was forced to eat it, of course. Not just that bowl, the entire box. After all, children were starving in Europe. I didn't touch any form of oatmeal again for over forty years. Lesson learned. You can't, or shouldn't, always get what you want. Hmmm, that reminds me, the 50th anniversary of the Rolling Stones first appearance on Ed Sullivan will be this coming October. I'd better start clearing off the DVR...